


Day 2: Accusation

by dalektabledesires



Series: Drabble A Day [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Can be read as stand alone, Drabbles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-13
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-09 21:04:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dalektabledesires/pseuds/dalektabledesires
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This hasn't been beta'd or Brit pricked. Apologies for any mistakes or errors! Also, I don't own these characters or Sherlock.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Day 2: Accusation

**Author's Note:**

> This hasn't been beta'd or Brit pricked. Apologies for any mistakes or errors! Also, I don't own these characters or Sherlock.

"You left me." The words were sharp and bitter on his tongue, incendiary, igniting a fire that raced up his cheeks and down his neck. They were harsh; they were uncharacteristic. They were cruelly honest, each syllable punctuated individually with a soft pressure that belied the anger in John's tone. Anger directed at an old flatmate who was suddenly very much present and very much not dead.  
Sherlock blinked, absorbing all of this and more within seconds. He saw the spread of the flush across John's face, calculated how long it would take for John to continue his tirade. 16.7 seconds. But John surprised Sherlock. With an audible snap, John closed his mouth and crossed his arms. He waited for Sherlock to speak.  
Sherlock fidgeted. Conversations, apologies, saying the correct phrases to garner affection in a genuine manner: all not his area. What did John want from him? He was back now. Wasn't that enough?  
John raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. John was prepared to wait, for as long as necessary. Damn. He was always more patient than Sherlock. Sherlock gestured sharply with his hand, flicking his wrist. "Yes, John, your memory is in working order. Excellent. I fail to see why that detail is currently significant."  
"Currently signifi..." John trailed off. "Sherlock, I'm _married_ now. I have a wife, who I actually love, you tosser. I cannot just up and move away from her, move in with you, and go back to the way we were before."  
Sherlock curled his lip. "Judging by the way you haven't used your cane once since you first set eyes on me and by the fact that the color rising in your face is not solely caused by anger but in fact is partially due to excitement-yes, I can tell it is excitement because the tips of your ears only ever turn red when you are excited-I would say that's exactly what we could do."  
John bristled. "No," he snapped. "No. You don't get to do that, Sherlock. You don't get to waltz in here, astound me with your fast talk and quick thinking, turn my life on its head, and expect me to willingly throw away all that I have because you are suddenly _bored_. Three years, Sherlock. Three fucking years you had to tell me, to call me or text me or sent a postcard. Three years of silence, of sadness and weariness, of learning how to live again. Three years of figuring out just who is John Watson without the army and without Sherlock, without someone to serve and protect. You don't get to come back after three years of that and act as if they never happened. If you can't see that I've changed, then fuck you."  
Sherlock's lips thinned. "Is that how you feel, then?" He stood up swiftly.  
John squeezed his eyes together and ran his hand over his face. "Christ, Sherlock, this isn't fair. You had years, years, to do this. Why are you choosing now?"  
Sherlock paused, his back to John. "It is only recently that I find myself in a position that enables me to do this, John." And what that could mean was anyone's guess.  
"It's not fair, Sherlock," John whispered.  
Sherlock's back stiffened. "Do grow up, John," he snapped. "Fairness is only something in which children believe, a useless tool parents teach their children in order to give them a false sense of hope for the future."  
John swallowed painfully. "But Sherlock, you just, you cannot come back into my life, sweeping in as if you've never left."  
"Why not?"  
John sighed. It was clear this was getting him no where. "What is it that you want, Sherlock?"  
Sherlock peaked at John over his shoulder, his eyes fierce in the dim light. He said nothing, but his gaze, all at once familiar and overwhelming, spoke volumes, layers and layers of hidden meaning John wasn't privy to. John closed his eyes. His face drained of its color, the anger receding from him like the tide, pulling out to sea slowly. "Why?" he whispered, and it covered so many questions. Why now? Why not then? Why couldn't it have been then? Why did you wait so long? Why didn't you do something before I found someone else? Why are you being so selfish?  
Sherlock shrugged, noncommittally. "I'm lost without my blogger."  
John said nothing for a long moment. Eventually, he opened his eyes. Sherlock had turned around and was studying him. "Ah," Sherlock whispered. His eyes traveled over John. "Of course. How could I have been so stupid?" He stepped in and grasped John on the back of the neck, bringing their faces very close together.  
"Sherlock?" John gasped, startled. His breath pushed out against Sherlock's, dancing softly with it, mixing slowly, and if the thought wasn't erotic, John wasn't sure what was.  
"Relax, John. I'm not going to kiss you."  
"You-you're not?" John's voice was unsteady, and he was not sure whether he was relieved or disappointed.  
"No," Sherlock breathed. "You would resent me for it, for pushing you to infidelity when you are a man of severe loyalty." John grunted his assent. One side of Sherlock's mouth quirked up in a smile, a real smile, the one that was just for John. "I am sorry, John," he said slowly, as if only discovering the words as he said them, the flavor and taste new and foreign to him. "It is horribly unfair and unkind and selfish of me to come back expecting anything of you." A beat of silence. "But that is who I am: a highly functioning sociopath. John," he sighed against John's lips and splayed his fingers, his impossibly long fingers, over John's face. "All I am asking is for you to try. I am not asking for infidelity or for betrayal, no, nothing that could be that dangerous."  
John smiled at the words from the past, words reaching out to tug him back into their life, into their world. If John were a stronger man, he would say no. Though if John were honest with himself, it would not take him being stronger to say no. It would take him not being madly in love with Sherlock to say no. And as much as he hated the thought of being untrue to Mary, John knew that if he said yes, he would never be able to resist Sherlock's pull, nor would he put her before Sherlock. Saying yes to Sherlock would most likely mean the end of his marriage.  
"Damn you," John whispered. The hand on his neck tightened, no doubt because its owner had already deduced John's decision. "Of course I will try," and it sounded like an accusation: _I'll do anything for you, you wanker, you impossible git, because I love you, I always have, and I suspect you love me too, and I'd rather suffer heartache and pain with you than the subtle bliss with Mary, because even though I love her, I am **in** love with you, and there's really no greater tragedy than that. _  
Sherlock's mouth quirked again and his grip relaxed, but he did not remove his hand. They stood like that, in the middle of the living room, Sherlock's hand on John's neck, their breaths mingling, and just looked at each other, looked because they had missed each other terribly, and the sight was like drowning and coming up for air all at once: overwhelming, consuming, and filled with relief. No matter the course of action from here, or the consequences, they were together again. It was all they needed.


End file.
